


Where Lines are Drawn

by nonsensicatty



Category: Shameless (US), gallavich - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Romance, dark themes, suggestion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 11:55:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5204960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonsensicatty/pseuds/nonsensicatty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His current whereabouts didn’t really surprise him; he found himself here often. Sometimes he’d just walk over and stand under the train tracks, the close proximity comforting enough. But tonight he knew he needed more – if the forming bruises beneath his coat were any indication.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Lines are Drawn

_Lies on your lips_

_But there's love in your eyes_

_Maybe I'll forget you_

_Some other time_

_Why do I let you cross the line?_

_Every time?_

_\- Alina Baraz_

 

His current whereabouts didn’t really surprise him; he found himself here often. When the shouting and screaming got to be too much, or the false peace of the Gallagher living room threatened to suffocate him. Or when that uncertain haze crept up inside him and swallowed up his thoughts until he was drowning in his own mind. Sometimes he’d just walk over and stand under the train tracks, the close proximity comforting enough. But tonight he knew he needed more – if the forming bruises beneath his coat were any indication. He needed a certain piece of South Side trash.

Said deviant suddenly threw open the front door, freezing in place when he found the redhead staring up at him from the pavement. It took him a moment to blink the drowsiness from his eyes and confirm that what he saw was in fact reality. “The fuck you doing here, Gallagher?” he demanded with a glare, glancing up and down the empty street for signs of trouble.

Ian wasn’t concerned by the other’s man’s trepidation though, feeling too selfish for that. All Ian was interested in was safety and contentment he felt with the pint-sized punk. The mere sight of him seemed to steady Ian’s racing heart. The tousled hair, the careless attire, the confident stance; his scowl was softened by the late hour and his skin set aglow by the dim porch light. Against the nip of the falling snow, a warmth bloomed in the center of Ian’s chest.

“I need to see you,” he admitted brazenly, setting his jaw against the immediate and nervous flutter of his stomach. He hadn’t considered what he’d do if he was turned away – he sure as hell couldn’t go home.

“What, _now_?” Mickey balked, pulling the door tighter to him so that his family wouldn’t overhear. “I thought you said they was home tonight,” he hissed quietly, as if his father from within the den, above the television, would catch them.

“Not to fuck, to hang out,” Ian clarified, though at the mention of his favorite pastime, his gaze lowered and he tried to envision the handsome figure beneath the clothes. The gently falling snowflakes melted against his warming cheeks.

But Ian’s confirmation of the night’s lack of sex unexcited the blue eyed boy, and he was business as usual. “Can’t, got an errand,” he explained, ducking back in the house to grab a coat and some shoes. With the slam of the front door, he was off, wordless as he brushed past the redhead and started down the slush-covered street.

“I’ll tag along,” Ian deflected, hurrying to keep up with Mickey as he stalked down the sidewalk.

“Not that kinda errand,” he protested, reaching a hand around his back to hitch up his shirt and reveal the fully-loaded weapon peeking out from the back of his trousers. While the sight should have ended the conversation, it didn’t. Actually, Ian didn’t pay much attention to the gun – rather the flash of milky skin.

“You gotta kill someone?”

“Not unless I have to,” Mickey replied; his casual indifference to the insanity of that statement both terrifying and enticing to Ian. Oh how he loved that contradiction; loved to feel it cause a friction in his veins.

“I can help,” he offered sheepishly, well aware his marksman skills were nothing compared to Mickey’s, but those reserve officer classes weren’t completely useless.

“Not gonna need it,” the Milkovich retorted smugly.

“You never know,” he tried with a shrug, doing his best to sound indifferent but failing.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Mick—,” Ian began to protest, but he was silenced when finally, and quite abruptly, Mickey spun on him. It was all the younger man could do not to crash into him; blue bore into green. The playful smirk was gone, as was the non-threatening glare, replaced with frustration and a scowl. Whatever patience there had been left of the day was officially wasted, giving way to the hot temper and foul mouth.

Ian recognized it easily enough, having seen it many times before, openly bearing his soul for the steely blues that scrutinized him. He knew what that hard gaze would find – he knew the danger of what he was doing. Ian had no misconceptions of what he and Mickey were: fuck buddies. Their particular relationship started and ended with sex, entailing multiple boundaries. This was one of them. He was stepping into new territory, and Ian was sure Mickey would see his intentions clear as day.  

Question was, how would the homophobic hypocrite react? Ian waited, the breath stuck in his lungs, for some form of retaliation, be it verbal or physical. He saw the response burning in Mickey’s eyes, rising in his chest. He almost flinched when it came:

“Whatever.”

It was like a blow to the stomach, causing his legs to lock beneath him; he stood there winded and reeling. Watching incredulously as Mick continued down the street, swaying in the sexily threatening way he did. Ian gawked disbelievingly, struggling against the rush in his veins to comprehend what had been said to him.

Mickey didn’t bother looking back, but at noticing the empty space beside him, graciously pulled the ginger from his daze. “Come on,” he waved, secretly relishing in the sound of Ian’s hurried footsteps, adding when he was once again near, “just stay out of the way.” 

Ian nodded wordlessly, momentarily incapable of forming any more of a response than that. The motion captured Mickey’s attention though, his eyes lingering on the half assed smile that grace those sinfully perfect lips. As soon as he caught himself, he tore his gaze away.

Not another word was exchanged to address the line which they had just crossed (the pounding of their hearts confirmation enough of its severity). Rather, they focused on the sound of damp jeans scraping along the pavement and boots crunching in the icy snow. On quick and awkward glances, pretending they didn’t catch one another when their gazes met.

Mickey took his with as much subtlety as he could manage, looking as though he were checking behind them or reacting to a sound across the street. Each glimpse brought on another. He was mesmerized. He took in the little details, the quiet ones he could never pay too much attention to otherwise. The freckles sprinkled haphazardly along Ian’s pallid skin; the grey furs of his hood tangling in stark contrast with his fiery hair; the handsome slope of his back as he pulled his jacket taught against it. The rise and fall of his chest as he huffed steam into the frigid night.

The dark haired youth grit his teeth against the carnivorous butterflies that ate at his insides.

Ian, however, was less discreet. Wanting that which he could only have when Mickey was at ease like this. Freedom. Ian was a known fag (for the most part), so people didn’t question when he looked too closely or for too long. What they _did_ question was who he looked at, which in this case was a tiny little fireball that’d kick the crap out of him if he drew too much attention. It was only in the dark Ian could marvel at that which he wasn’t allowed to lust after. The powerful slope of Mickey’s relaxed shoulders, defined by years of enforcing crime; the adorable angle at which their height difference put them; the well-groomed head of sleeked back hair he loved to destroy and dishevel. The crystal blue of his eyes. The threatening sway in his step.

The silence settled, not necessarily an uncomfortable one, but any period of time in which Ian Gallagher went without passing the time with pointless rambling was strange. Neither minded it much, too busy ogling. That was, until Mick stole another peek at the boy and noticed the red marks forming along Ian’s jawline. He wouldn’t have been able to spot it, had it not been for the street light they passed under – the discoloration of his skin blended almost perfectly with his frostbitten cheeks.

That was when the peaceful silence became deafening.

While the marks were small and nearly insignificant, Mickey knew the unseen pain that came with them. It’s wasn’t a pain he knew how to talk out – like Ian would if the situation were reversed. Ian would be able to navigate the minefield that was Mickey upset, and dismantle the anger that resided. Mickey couldn’t do that for Ian.

Nor was he sure he should. It was another one of those unspoken boundaries, a rule they both unquestioningly abided by: keeping their noses out of each other’s shit. The important stuff, at least. Ian probed all the time, sure, but he knew never to get serious or expect a response that didn’t include a slew of profanity. Occasionally, there was meaningless pillow talk (when there were pillows involved). Mickey however, never instigated the questioning. Wasn’t meant to. He wasn’t a smooth talking fucker like Ian.

Though he was very good at breaking things, always had been, be it bones or the silence. And this silence was killing him, tearing at his sanity with each passing second. With a self-directed growl he pretended not to see Ian falter at, Mickey made his decision. Boundaries be damned. He resisted the urge for a good while, fighting off the curiosity gnawing at the back of his mind until the words just tumbled out.

“Shit day?”

Ian hesitated, watching the breath he didn’t know he was holding, break into a cloud of steam. “Yeah,” he exhaled carefully, once again entering into the unknown; he tensed for whatever may come.

“Wanna talk about it?” Mickey offered as casually as possible, but his efforts were betrayed by the look in his eye when he spotted the marks again.

“Not really,” Ian admitted, dropping his gaze to the ground. Mickey didn’t press – in fact, he was grateful the conversation didn’t go further – instead he moved in closer and set his shoulder against Ian’s. Mickey couldn’t articulate it, but he hoped the gesture conveyed his sympathy. Ian nudged him back with a quiet, “Thanks.”

They went on like that for a little while longer until Mickey spotted Ian’s fists in his pockets. Not that that was particularly odd on a night as cold as this, but Ian was a touchy-feely kinda guy. That he went so long without some sort of attempted escalation to their physical contact was out of the ordinary. This time, Mick didn’t hesitate: “Lemme see your hands.”

With an equal lack of hesitation, Ian pulled his bloodied hands from his coat pockets, grimacing at the nip of the winter chill. They had just passed under a street light, leaving only the dim glow of the city for Mickey to see with, but it was enough.

“Damn Gallagher,” Mickey huffed, pulling said teen to a stop with a handful of sleeve. He carefully wrapped his hand around Ian’s bruised wrist, pulling it closer for inspection. Despite his attempt, Mickey wasn’t gentle – didn’t know how to be – but Ian didn’t mind.  Rather, he smiled at the glittering snow that had caught almost artfully in Mickey’s jet black hair. He had to stuff the smile away quickly though when the teen looked up to ask, “Give as good as you got?”

“Close enough,” he shrugged, not resisting as Mickey used his handhold in his sleeve to drag him to the edge of the sidewalk. Ian wasn’t even paying enough attention to resist, too caught up in the sweet burn of Mickey’s fingers on his skin. In the tingly pleasure that trickled up his arm and caused his hairs to stand.

Mick looked about for a moment, having done this many times himself after a good bar fight or a nasty run in with his own demons. He found a patch of glistening white, and cupped a wad of clean snow from off a windowsill, setting it none too gently atop Ian’s fattening knuckles. Having plenty experience of the department of treating ugly wounds, he was prepared for Ian’s instinctive flinch, holding him closer still as he molded the snow to Ian’s hand.

“Fuck,” the redhead hissed as the hard snow bit into his broken skin. He didn’t dare pull away though, not at the vice like grip that locked around his wrist. He just waited and let the numbness set in, trying not to squirm as Mickey pressed it in further. In his struggle to remain complaisant, he glanced up to catch the furrow in Mickey’s brow and the hard line of his mouth.

Ian could sense the older boy’s growing frustration, building like a storm in his cold glare and steadily increasing sighs. Again, it wasn’t something Mick could put into words – if left unchecked it’d explode into action. A dangerous possibility, especially considering the firepower the Milkovich boy was packing.

“It’s no big deal, ya know?” Ian admitted dismissively, nodding to his hands at Mickey’s immediate confusion, adding with a tinge of pride, “didn’t even break any bones.”

“Fuck that, your hand looks like ground beef,” Mickey snapped, giving the snow a rough pat for emphasis.

“Shit,” Ian hissed venomously, finally wrenching back his hand and nursing it into his chest. But Ian’s attempt at subterfuge was a success, the tension dissolving as Mick stepped back with a laugh.

“That’s what I thought,” he chuckled unashamedly, flashing Ian a crooked smirk before turning to start back down the street. Ian waited for a moment before following, looking down to admire Mick’s handiwork. It was simple – yet effective – and messy, dripping down his coat sleeve as it melted against his pulse. But that’s what they were.

Not another word was said between the two that night – except for an uncomfortably heart wrenching “see ya later” when they parted ways at the Milkovich porch a few hours later. They continued deeper into the South Side together for a little while longer, eventually reaching the residence of Mickey’s errand. As Ian watched from afar his berserk boyfriend beat to a bloody pulp some nameless pervert, he couldn’t help but smile. While he smoothed over a layer of snow he had set against his hand, his head hurt to think about the consequences of the boundaries they both crossed that evening.

So after a short while of pondering the possible repercussions, he resigned to simply enjoy the remainder of the night. 

**Author's Note:**

> Finally finished! 
> 
> I’ve been working on this for weeks – trying to get it just right. It’s not perfect, but I think the final product adequately portrays my fantasy. This is my first Gallavich, so lemme know if anything is too OOC or just completely off the reservation!
> 
> Remember, comments are love ♥
> 
> \- Nonsensicatty


End file.
